Chapter 69

“What did I just hear?” Kennard’s eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, a hint of disbelief in his tone. “Where did they say they were calling me?” he asked.

“To the ritual honoring Bazak…” Serin replied, his voice tinged with caution.

Kennard stilled, his fingers stopping mid-tap on the desk as he fixed a glare on Serin. “Should I refuse outright?”

Serin scratched his temple, a wry smile creeping onto his face. “Isn’t that obvious?”

Kennard leaned back in his chair, resting both elbows on the armrests as he clasped his hands together thoughtfully. “They must be out of their minds. How dare they summon me anywhere?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Serin nodded. “I was rather stunned myself, but I felt it necessary to inform you first.” He lifted an envelope from the table, examining the seal from the village chief, Simir. “I’ll inform them that Your Grace will not attend. That being the case, what should be done about the ritual? It seems they’re preparing for a celebration.”

Kennard scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

“Understood,” Serin replied with a slight bow. “I’ll make sure that’s clear to them as well.”

Kennard’s gaze followed Serin as he walked to a side desk. He eyed the envelope in Serin’s hand thoughtfully, his brow furrowing in contemplation. A sudden idea crossed his mind, and he quickly calculated the possibilities.

“Serin,” Kennard called.

“Yes, Your Grace?” Serin turned, looking back at him.

“Tell them I’ll attend.”

Serin’s hand froze in midair as he was about to set the envelope down. He shot Kennard a perplexed look. “Pardon?”

“I said,” Kennard’s voice held an edge of finality, “I’ll attend this ritual of theirs… honoring Bazak, or whatever they call it.”

“So, are you saying you’ll also approve the celebration?” Serin asked, stepping back in front of Kennard’s desk with a raised brow. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“There might be someone among them colluding with the White Fox Tribe,” Kennard replied, his voice low.

Serin frowned, unconvinced. “Even if that were true, do you think there’s a way to uncover it on the day? I doubt any traitor would be reckless enough to act with Your Grace present.”

Kennard tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t be certain. But it wouldn’t hurt to observe their behavior, don’t you think?”

Serin nodded slowly, glancing down at the envelope in his hand. “Shall I tell them Your Grace will attend, then?”

“Yes,” Kennard replied, his tone decisive.

“Will it be just the two of us going?” Serin pressed.

Kennard propped his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands together, and tapped his chin with his thumbs as he bit down on his lower lip. “On the surface.”

Serin’s brows knitted in slight confusion. “When you say ‘on the surface’…”

“You and I will enter the village alone, but the knights will guard the perimeter,” Kennard clarified.

“Understood.” 

“And make it clear,” Kennard added, his gaze hardening, “that anyone engaging in nonsense outside the ritual is to be dealt with on the spot.”

“Understood,” Serin repeated.

With a sigh, Serin returned to the side desk, sitting down to quickly draft a reply. After scribbling the formal message, he brought it back to Kennard, who reviewed it with a brief nod of approval. 

Serin picked up the sealing wax and held it over the candle’s flame. As the wax melted, he dipped the Devil House’s wolf insignia into the molten pool. With a steady hand, he pressed the symbol onto the envelope.

At the sound of the handbell, Lassino entered from the adjacent room, bowing slightly.

“Send someone to deliver this to Simir,” Kennard commanded, gesturing toward the envelope in Serin’s hand.

“Yes, Your Grace.” With a nod, Lassino took the envelope and swiftly exited the office.

As the door closed, Serin watched with a frown, his disapproval evident. “Wouldn’t it be better if Your Grace didn’t go yourself just to observe their movements? We could simply send the knights to the village.”

Kennard leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m curious.”

“Curious? About what, exactly?” Serin asked, his gaze wary.

Kennard’s eyes gleamed with a subtle interest. “This so-called witch they mention. Apparently, they’re calling someone with red hair and gray eyes a witch.”

“Yes, they are,” Serin confirmed with a nod, though his expression remained skeptical.

Kennard scoffed, his voice tinged with irritation. “All because of this god they call Bazak, who condemns people with such features as witches?”

“That’s correct,” Serin replied, folding his arms. “It’s Bazak’s doctrine that fuels their fear.”

“I’m intrigued by what makes this wretched Bazak, or whatever they call him, so revered. If Elena is to stay here for any length of time, dismantling their misguided beliefs may become… necessary.”

“So that’s the reason,” Serin murmured, a sigh escaping him as he shook his head.

Kennard’s expression darkened, and Serin hesitated before speaking again, carefully choosing his words. “Why should it matter to you what they call a witch outside the castle, especially when you keep Elena—” Serin paused, catching the sharpness in Kennard’s gaze, and quickly corrected himself, “no, Lady Elena—hidden here within these walls?”

“I can’t keep her in the castle forever,” Kennard said, his tone resolute. “I plan to take her to the forest and the hot springs eventually. I won’t have her treated like a criminal in hiding.”

“The… hot springs?” Serin repeated, frowning. “You mean the old man Leto mentioned?” He rubbed his forehead, pressing hard enough to create faint creases.

Kennard nodded, ignoring Serin’s look of disapproval. “She didn’t say anything about it, but I’m sure she’d enjoy it.”

“Your Grace…” Serin hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “Are you certain this is wise?”

“Don’t say a word,” Kennard warned, his gaze icy.

Serin’s lips twitched as if he had much to say, but he wisely held his tongue. Muttering under his breath, he turned and made his way back to the side desk, occupying himself with some documents.

Knock, knock.

The sound broke the tension, and Lassino reentered, bowing politely. “Your Grace, someone has arrived from the salon.”

Kennard’s brow lifted in mild surprise. “Where are they?”

“I’ve shown them to the drawing room.”

“Very well.” Kennard rose from his desk, smoothing the front of his frock coat with a practiced hand.

Serin, watching him with growing skepticism, stood abruptly and took a step closer. “The salon? Why the salon?” he asked, incredulous.

“I’m getting Elena a new dress.”

Serin’s mouth fell open. “But didn’t you buy dozens of dresses just a few months ago? And now you’re having one custom-made?”

Kennard shot him an exasperated look. “The season has changed.”

With that, he turned and followed Lassino out of the office, his stride purposeful as they moved down the corridor.

“And where is Elena?” Kennard asked as they walked.

“She should already be waiting in the drawing room, Your Grace,” Lassino replied with a slight bow. Lassino had personally handled Elena’s torn dress. He’d never consider delegating such a task, and when Kennard had instructed him to summon someone from the salon, the butler had given a subtle, knowing smile—as if he had anticipated it all along.

“Didn’t she say no?” Kennard asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She did indeed,” Lassino replied, his face bearing a serene smile.

Kennard smirked, amused. “Well done persuading her.”

Lassino inclined his head modestly. “I merely mentioned that if she didn’t have a fitting today, Your Grace might end up purchasing dozens more dresses. That, it seems, convinced her to reluctantly make her way to the drawing room.”

Kennard stifled a chuckle, impressed by Lassino’s gentle but effective persuasion. “Perhaps I should entrust you with convincing Elena next time.”

“If Your Grace trusts me, I will do my utmost,” Lassino said, crossing a hand over his chest and bowing slightly.

Behind them, Serin muttered under his breath, sounding distinctly disgruntled. “She was just in her chambers for the first time in days, and of course, it’s for Elena again, isn’t it?”

Kennard halted mid-stride, turning a cold, warning gaze on him. Serin, who had been trailing behind with a frown, quickly stopped as well, his eyes darting away.

“Title,” Kennard intoned sharply.

“Lady… Elena, Your Grace,” Serin corrected himself, his lips pressed in reluctant obedience.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Kennard warned before resuming his brisk pace down the corridor.

When they entered the drawing room on the first floor, they found Elena exactly as Lassino had described. She stood near a large mirror, which had been positioned beside the tea table, examining herself with a quiet expression. The tailor hovered beside her, holding up fabric swatches and gesturing toward different cuts and styles. The sunlight streaming through the window cast a warm glow, illuminating Elena’s delicate features as she glanced between her reflection and the tailor’s suggestions.

Elena had already turned toward the door before Kennard entered, her gaze instinctively finding his. “Your Grace,” she greeted softly, her cheeks tinged with a delicate blush.

“I greet Your Grace,” Cura murmured, bowing alongside the tailor, who had begun unpacking his measuring tape and notebook.

Kennard crossed the room to Elena, ignoring the others momentarily as he brushed a kiss against her lips and let his hand linger on her cheek. Her face flushed even deeper, as if a fire had sparked beneath her skin, and she quickly lowered her gaze, avoiding his eyes. Kennard felt an urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her more deeply right then and there.

“Ahem,” Serin cleared his throat from behind, reminding Kennard of their audience.

Elena, still unable to meet his gaze, whispered, “Your Grace, I already have enough dresses.”

Kennard placed his hand gently on her shoulder, pressing a brief kiss to the top of her head. “One of them is now unwearable,” he murmured just for her ears, his voice warm. At his words, the blush spread to the back of her neck, and a satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Kennard turned his attention to the tailor, who stood a few steps away, shifting awkwardly with the measuring tape in hand. The man’s round face resembled a full moon, and his portly figure gave him multiple folds along his chin. His small glasses were nearly lost in his broad face, and his clothes stretched over his belly as though they might give way. Kennard noted with faint amusement that the man seemed to have gained even more weight since they last met.

Despite his outward appearance, the tailor’s creations were impeccable, one reason Kennard entrusted his own attire to him. His wife, renowned for her delicate and intricate dressmaking, was equally skilled; together, they formed a team that had garnered admiration even before following Kennard from Montefiano to Terra Demorte.

Kennard raised an eyebrow. “But why are you here? I called for your wife to fit a dress for this lady here.” He gestured toward Elena with a subtle nod.

The tailor, startled by the unexpected shift in attention, quickly turned to face Kennard. “I—I only came because I received a summons from Your Grace, and I assumed it was for your own fitting…” His words trailed off uncertainly.

Kennard’s frown deepened, his gaze flicking toward Lassino, who stood nearby, a slight, almost imperceptible tension in his stance.